Children of Time, Ep 2: Men of England
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: The Doctor is lost without his Companions, and the Great Detective is lost without his Boswell. John H. Watson is in for the adventure of a lifetime. Sequel to "Smith and Holmes".
1. 221B Or Not 221B

**Introduction:**

Here we are with our second episode at last! The previous disclaimers apply: we own nothing but our fantasies, and we regret nothing, either. Enjoy!

**==Chapter One==**

**221B Or Not 221B**

_We're falling through space, you and me, clinging to the skin of this tiny little world, and if we let go... That's who I am._

The Doctor was not thinking about Martha Jones's refusal. Nope, not even a little bit, because he couldn't blame her for it. But as much as he couldn't blame her, he also needed… _someone_. _Anyone_. The TARDIS did her absolute best to keep him from going insane, but she did understand, at least somewhat, that a linear being _had_ to have the company of another linear being.

She was actually the one who had talked him into this trip.

He'd hesitated at first, protested that any offers he could make would likely not be altogether welcome, but she overrode all protests and, in the end, set off for their current destination. And now, with her materialising into that particular time and place, he couldn't deny that he was excited to be here.

He cracked the door open and poked his head out, taking a deep breath of the damp, chilly air. "Ah, 1895! Wonderful year…"

He grinned at the muffled sound of someone running down a flight of stairs from the house on the other side of the street. The front door burst open, revealing a broadly grinning Sherlock Holmes. "Doctor!"

The Doctor beamed back. "…wonderful people," he finished. "Sherlock Holmes!" He covered the street in a couple of quick strides and grabbed the detective up in a hug. "You'd think it'd been two years for me instead of two weeks. How are you?!"

Holmes returned the hug, laughing. "All the better for seeing you again, my dear sir." His grin faded as memory flooded his grey eyes. "I must admit, returning to the slow path was far more difficult than I had anticipated."

The Doctor didn't stop smiling. "Ohhhh, I'm sure you've been brilliant—'fact, I know it! Read it, y'know!" He winked, eliciting a slightly rueful smile from the detective, whose face quickly brightened again.

"Thankfully, I have not walked that path alone. Doctor, there is someone I should very much like you to meet…" He turned towards the door, and the Doctor heard hasty but slower footsteps in the hall.

"I swear, Holmes," declared an exasperated voice from within the house, "one of these days you're going to break your neck on these stairs! That booth isn't about to grow wings and fly off, for heaven's sake!"

Holmes was valiantly struggling not to laugh at the innocent remark, shoulders shaking slightly. The Doctor didn't bother to keep his grin from splitting his face. "Doctor John H. Watson!_ Molto bene_!"

Watson appeared in the doorway, curiosity—a writer's curiosity—overcoming exasperation in his expression as he took in the sight of the TARDIS. His hazel eyes fell upon the Doctor a moment later, and he gave a friendly smile, coupled with a bow. "Ah, good evening, sir!"

The Doctor beamed again. "Dr. Watson… so good to finally meet you! Read all your stories—" he successfully resisted the urge to wink again at Holmes—"brilliant stuff!" Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Holmes's indulgent smile.

Watson beamed back, his expression pleasantly surprised. Goodness, Holmes was right: Watson really was easy to read—so very open and unguarded in his emotions. "Thank you, sir," said Watson, "you're very kind!" He offered his hand, which the Doctor shook firmly. "Whom do I have the honour of meeting?"

The Time Lord flicked a grin at Holmes. "Oh, I'm the Doctor."

The hazel eyes were darting back and forth between his friend and the newcomer, brow furrowing slightly… He was visibly curious at the lack of a name, though the smile never faltered. "Holmes, is this a friend of yours?"

Holmes smiled back, nodding. "The Doctor and I first encountered each other two years ago, whilst I was in Tibet." The smile faded again. "I must confess, Doctor, I had not expected to see you again quite so… soon." _Nice little oblique reference to my timeline, Sherlock, well done_… "I hope nothing is amiss?"

The Doctor had, himself, sobered to a quiet smile. "Ohhh, 'm not doing so bad… Maybe we can talk upstairs? And some explanations can be made?"

The flatmates exchanged glances, and Holmes nodded slowly. "By all means, my dear sir. Watson, would you be so good as to ask Mrs Hudson for some light refreshment? I strongly suspect we shall be needing it."

Watson echoed the nod, looking all business-as-usual. "Of course, Holmes. After you, Doctor." He gestured at the door, and the Doctor couldn't help grinning again, this time in thanks.

He was all but bouncing with excitement as he stepped into the famous old house, flashing an excited grin over his shoulder at Holmes. He hung his overcoat in the hall, respectful of Victorian manners, paused at the seventeen steps, feeling like a Holmesian having his best dream come true. Then he reverently climbed the stairs and entered the sitting room, studying it with a child's delight—that was the only way to enjoy something as brilliant as this. "Lovely place you have here."

From behind him, Holmes said, "You are too kind, Doctor—please excuse the clutter." He cleared a stack of newspapers off the settee and ended up dropping them behind his armchair.

The Doctor snorted in amusement—messy boy. "Holmes, c'mon: you've seen the inside of…" He nodded at the TARDIS out the window and took a seat on the settee.

Holmes's lips twitched in response. He seated himself in his armchair and eyed the Doctor speculatively. "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Doctor, before Watson returns?"

The Doctor's grin froze on his face, reminded all too soon and too sharply of his loneliness. "Two weeks, Holmes," he said quietly: "two weeks alone and just one day—just _one day_—of working with somebody else." He shook his head, not breaking eye contact, trying hard to drive his point home. "I can't do it." He grimaced slightly. "I literally _cannot_ do it."

Holmes's lips pressed together, brow furrowed in concern. "Somehow," he murmured, "I suspected this was not merely a social visit…" He sat forward and said gently, "May I ask what happened?"

The Doctor shook his head more slowly, looking away, afraid that if he gazed too long at Holmes's sympathetic expression, he'd break down. Again. And he was _not_ going there this time. "Not much to tell. Been hopping here and there, landed back in the early twenty-first century, had an adventure with a promising medical student…" He'd quickly taken a shine to Martha, too, and he'd fancied, at the time, that the feeling had been mutual… "She didn't want to come," he said softly.

He finally summoned up the courage to return his gaze to Holmes and make one strong supplication. "That was a few days ago, aaand…" He gave a slight, self-deprecatory laugh. "Just in case you were wondering, I really _haven't_ slept since then… So many years of stopping the bad guys… it gives you too many demons to handle…" His eyes were pleading what he was afraid to say: _Come with me_.

Holmes appeared decidedly tempted but hesitated. "Doctor… are you certain about this? My hiatus has come to an end, it is true, but given what you have told me about my timeline, _Watson's_ timeline…" He spread his hands and said softly, "For I would certainly never consider leaving him behind… not again…"

The Doctor gazed at him sadly. "I would never _dream_ of asking that of you. Holmes, I can return you two to this exact point in Time—here on the evening of November the twentieth, and I can do it from _any_ point in Time. I haven't forgotten what I said about you _not_ coming with me. But look at the two of you! Two of the best vigilantes in the history of mankind, one of whom actually went up against Dalek abominations from the Time War and _survived_."

Holmes inclined his head modestly, though the Doctor noted a slight shiver in the man. He couldn't blame him: those memories were fuel for nightmares if ever there was any. The Time Lord's lips formed a word clearly and soundlessly: _Please_.

Holmes appeared _very_ tempted. "If Watson agrees..." he said slowly.

The Doctor looked at him with cautious hope, still afraid.

The human pinned him with a stern expression. "However, Doctor, one trip only—" the Time Lord's heart fell—"and you _will_ make clear to him the risks involved in such a venture."

The Doctor bowed his head and nodded slowly. "Of course."

* * *

When Watson reentered the sitting room, holding the door open for the tray-laden Mrs Hudson, his first impression was that his friend had already refused their guest assistance; understandable, given Holmes' stern countenance and the Doctor's dejected posture. Drawing closer, however, Watson noted that the excited gleam had not left the detective's eye—if anything, it had grown.

"Ah, thank you, Mrs Hudson. Much obliged, Watson, take a seat," Holmes added, smiling appreciatively at the pair of them as Mrs Hudson set the tray down on the coffee table.

"You're quite welcome, Mr Holmes," said the widow, smiling back. "Sir," she added, nodding courteously at the Doctor. "Will there be anything else?"

Holmes waved a casual hand, although clearly most anxious for their landlady to depart in short order. "I should say not, Mrs Hudson, not tonight."

"Very good, sir." Mrs Hudson bestowed one last genteel nod on her lodger before sedately turning to leave.

A curious Watson observed the tenderness in the Doctor's eye as he watched the woman exit without lifting his head, accompanied by an oddly affectionate murmur of "Bless her heart..." Watson certainly couldn't find any fault with the sentiment, however, smiling his agreement and gesturing invitingly at the tray before them. "Please, Doctor, no need to stand on ceremony at this time of night. Holmes is able to assist you, I trust?"

The Doctor paused for a moment as he moved forward to pour himself a cup of tea, glancing briefly across at Holmes, then turning back to look hesitantly at Watson. "Actually..." he said slowly, "Whether or not he assists me really depends on _you_, Dr Watson."

"I?" Watson's eyes widened. "Holmes, what on earth is he talking about?"

Holmes looked at him seriously. "As it happens, Watson, the Doctor is not here regarding a case. He has a proposition for us, of sorts; but before a decision can be made, there are a number of things you need to know, my dear fellow..." The detective seemed to steel himself for a moment, before continuing. "And most, if not all of them, may be rather difficult for you to believe." Holmes leant forward, his expression earnest. "However, Watson, I can assure you that every word is the truth. I have seen firsthand evidence of the Doctor's claims, and you shall also have the chance to verify those claims for yourself."

Watson's brow furrowed as he looked Holmes straight in the eye, then nodded slowly. He turned back to the Doctor, who was watching the pair of them intently from the settee, fingers tapping nervously on the rim of his cup. "Then by all means, sir, proceed. You have me greatly intrigued."

The Doctor swallowed his tea in one gulp, then set the cup down, shoving both hands into his pockets and taking a deep breath. His solemn gaze met Watson's, marginally softened by a faint smile. "I'll never forget that bit in _A Study in Scarlet_ when you couldn't believe that Holmes didn't know that the Earth revolves around the Sun." The smile faded into quiet intensity. "And you know that it revolves on its axis, but you can't feel that because the planet's gravity holds you in place, keeps you grounded." The Doctor's voice became even quieter and more intense. "But _I_ can. I can feel the Earth turning, the ground beneath our feet spinning... spinning a thousand miles an hour, and hurtling around the sun sixty-seven thousand miles an hour... and I can feel that, too."

Watson's brows knitted together in confusion, uncertain of what to make of what the Doctor had just told him. The man's sincerity was plain—it rang true in every word—but the significance of those words escaped Watson completely! A glance over at Holmes didn't help matters; the detective was still leaning forward in his seat, chin now cupped in his hand, his expression completely unreadable as his gaze flickered between the two doctors.

Their guest took another deep breath. "I'm the Doctor. In mankind's history, I was the first, and I'll probably end up being the last. That's who I am. The Doctor. Because I help people, because I try to heal them." He swallowed hard, and Watson was appalled by the most haunted look he had ever seen appearing in the man's eyes, the look of someone who had witnessed enough pain and suffering for a thousand lifetimes... "Lot of responsibility in being the last of the Time Lords..." And suddenly he turned back to Holmes, expression clear once more, but with his shoulders drooping. "I'm _still_ going too fast, aren't I?"

Holmes sighed, lips twitching in amusement, which a still-mystified Watson dearly hoped was not at his expense. "Doctor, if I may? Otherwise, we could be here all night."

The Doctor looked decidedly sheepish, ducking his head once more. "Right, yes. I'm sorry..." He darted an apologetic glance up at Watson.

Holmes turned to Watson, smiling reassuringly, although his eyes now held an anxious glint. "And that is no reflection upon your intelligence, my dear fellow; merely that the Doctor does have an unfortunate tendency to ramble at precisely the wrong moment, as you have just witnessed. No offense, Doctor," he hastened to add. The detective hesitated for a long moment, then took a deep breath of his own. "Watson... the crux of the matter is this: your belief that there could be sentient life on other planets... was absolutely correct. One such example sits before you now. The Doctor is not human—he is from another world."

Watson's mouth fell open, eyes popping, completely speechless.

Prudently choosing not to wait for a response, Holmes continued on steadily. "He is the last of an ancient race known as the Time Lords and, as might be assumed from the name, travels through Time, moving from one era of mankind's history to another with the same ease that you would browse within the covers of a favourite volume."

The Doctor nodded at Holmes, brightening. "I like that analogy!" Turning back to Watson, "That box out there is m' time machine: the TARDIS."

Watson shook his head weakly to forestall any further explanation, doing his best to regain his shattered composure, or at the very least the ability to think coherently.

Holmes looked at him in deep concern, leaning further forward to lay a hand on his friend's arm. "I think that ought to suffice for the moment, Doctor," he murmured aside. "Are you all right, old fellow?"

Watson drew a shaky breath, leaning back weakly in his armchair, and took a fortifying gulp of his rapidly cooling tea. "I'm fine, Holmes, honestly," he murmured back. "I just... need a minute to... take everything in!" A sudden dreadful suspicion took hold of him through his growing sense of wonder, and he fixed the detective with a forbidding glare. "You _are_ absolutely serious, Holmes? Because if this is any sort of hoax...!" Although admittedly, Holmes had never attempted to deceive him quite like this before! And why would he, on a subject which he would ordinarily have laughed to scorn?

The Doctor rose hurriedly and stepped forward, hands spread entreatingly. "Watson, I'll prove it to you! I can take you anywhere in Time and Space, anywhere in Earth's history or future. We can go meet Cleopatra or Marco Polo or..." He snapped his fingers, eyes lighting up. "Shakespeare! Globe Theatre, 1599!"

The very notion filled Watson with pure delight. A moment later, however, he found his elation being tempered by quite a different sense of wonder, and he gazed at the Doctor thoughtfully. "Why?"

The quiet inquiry seemed to catch the Doctor entirely off guard, freezing for a second like a Highland stag catching the first scent of a hunter. Then he sagged, suddenly looking terribly old and weary. "You've seen the night sky when it's full, right? When it's brilliant and full to bursting with stars and planets and galaxies... Well, I've been to at least half of them, at any given point in Time. I've seen the beginning of the world, and I've also seen its end." He dropped back down onto the settee, shoulders hunched, hands clasping and unclasping in front of him, staring at the floor. "And, after a very long time... it all gets to be just... _stuff_. You lose the wonder..." He raised his head again to smile tentatively at Watson. "Unless you're sharing it with someone."

The note of profound loss and loneliness in the alien's voice was plainly audible, and Watson felt his own heart ache in empathy, regarding the... Time Lord? in front of him with growing understanding.

The Doctor continued solemnly: "Dr Watson, it'd be my privilege to share that with you and Mr Holmes, if only for a little while."

Watson felt far too deeply honoured at being granted such an incredible opportunity to express any disappointment he might have felt at the last words. "It would be _our_ privilege to travel with you, Doctor." He smiled warmly, then cast a sideways look at Holmes, sobering as he took in the detective's expression: excitement, certainly, but coupled with an unease that seemed to speak far more of memory than speculation. Exactly how much explanation had his friend omitted? "But before deciding, I believe Holmes and I need to confer privately." He spread his hands, smile turning apologetic. "If you will excuse us a moment?"

The Doctor swallowed but nodded meekly, rising from the settee. "Of course. Absolutely. I'll just go... check on the TARDIS..." He cast one final look at Holmes, pleading brown eyes reminding Watson irresistibly of a puppy in disgrace, before hastily leaving the room and shutting the door quietly behind him.


	2. A Brave New World

**==Chapter Two==**

**A Brave New World**

_We never know what is going to happen, do we? Life is always throwing us this way and that. That's where the adventure is.  
_

_—Eowyn Ivey, The Snow Child  
_

The moment the Doctor had left, Watson turned back to Holmes, his eyebrow raised in the all-too-familiar silent question: _Well?_

Holmes felt his cheeks grow warm, responding sheepishly, "Watson, I am aware that I owe you something of an apology. I probably should have told you of the Doctor long before." Although how to even broach the subject was a mystery that had baffled the detective since his return. Besides which, he had not had the slightest desire to prostrate Watson with horror at the numerous perils his friend had exposed himself to, regardless of necessity.

"'Probably', yes." Watson sighed, his exasperation plain, before returning to the issue at hand. "You met this man in Tibet?"

Holmes nodded, smiling grimly. "Yes, we... ran into each other while on the same investigation." Well... he had _been_ running...

Both of Watson's eyebrows shot up. "I should like to hear about that sometime soon—but not just now." He gave Holmes a serious look, clearly still having trouble accepting everything he had heard thus far. The detective really couldn't blame him, under the circumstances. "Holmes, this... what you and he have told me... It is all true?"

Holmes looked Watson straight in the eye, his gaze steady. "Every word, my dear Watson. I know I have been less than honest with you in the past, of which my three year masquerade is only the worst example..." And those last few months had never seemed so interminable, even with the Doctor's promise of what awaited him at the end, or perhaps because of that... "But I give you my word, my friend: the Doctor is who he says he is, and far more."

Watson's brow furrowed. "And yet you did not accept his offer straight away... I would have followed you, Holmes, you know that—even on a venture I would normally have deemed impossible." He grinned wryly. "It certainly isn't as if I have _not_ done so before."

Holmes nodded slowly. "I know." He bit his lip, trying to choose his next words with care, his thirst for adventure warring with the need to adequately prepare his friend for what could be in store. "Watson... the little time that the Doctor and I spent together in Tibet was fraught with danger, of a kind that I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams..." And still occasionally saw in his worst nightmares... "I could not, in good conscience, accept his offer on your behalf without your being aware of the risks involved. The Doctor is by no means a safe travelling companion. He seems irresistibly drawn to trouble—or perhaps it is the other way around."

Watson calmly studied him as he spoke, remarking softly, "That sounds not unlike someone else I know..." There was far more truth in those words than Holmes would have liked to admit. Watson continued even more quietly: "He is a very lonely man, isn't he?"

"He is, indeed," Holmes responded in the same quiet tone, vividly recalling the Doctor's anguished, tear-streaked face as he fell asleep in the detective's arms—though Holmes would never dream of explaining about Miss Rose to Watson without the Doctor's express permission.

His friend sighed, then chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "A _time_ _machine_? Dear heavens..."

Holmes smiled widely. "My dear Watson, you do not know the half of it! H. G. Wells' creation is nothing to it—or, I should say: her."

Watson's eyes widened. "_Her_? My dear fellow, please tell me you are referring to this machine as one would a ship!"

Holmes chuckled. "She is not merely a machine, Watson..." His voice hushed reverently, the wonder he had felt when first introduced to the marvellous vessel still just as profound. "She is also _alive_, and as self aware as you or I."

Watson's mouth slowly fell open. "How... how is such a thing _possible_?"

The detective shrugged expansively, grinning broadly. "I haven't the slightest idea, old boy – and that is not even the most astounding thing about her!"

Watson's eyes were as round as saucers. "Dare I ask?"

Holmes's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Well, I have no objection to telling you, my dear fellow—but to be honest, it truly is something which is far better experienced firsthand." And he was greatly looking forward to his friend's reaction when he entered the TARDIS for the first time...

Watson glanced heavenward. "I knew it." He squared his shoulders. "Well, I suppose there's nothing else for it, then: you and the Doctor shall simply have to introduce me firsthand to this new world, and tolerate my perpetual astonishment." His eyes twinkled merrily.

Holmes's smile grew wider, his heart swelling with pride. "Bravo, Watson!" He nodded towards the window, eyes shining with anticipation. "Shall we?"

Watson smiled back, Holmes's excitement clearly infecting him as well. "After you, my dear Holmes."

The detective laughed in delight, clapping Watson on the shoulder as they both rose. "Ah, Watson! This shall without doubt be our most amazing adventure yet!" Moving swiftly to the door, he took his coat and scarf from their hook in the hall, remembering only too well the conditions he and the Doctor had faced on their last adventure.

Watson grinned in amazement as he followed Holmes out, following his friend's example by grabbing his own overcoat. "Traveling through Time with an alien..."

Holmes was already downstairs, barely keeping from bounding ahead out of the door. Sternly suppressing the impulse, he offered his arm to Watson as the doctor stiffly descended the last few steps, smiling affectionately. "And I should want to do it with no one else, my dear fellow."

His patience was rewarded by Watson's beam as his friend took his arm. "Nor should I, Holmes." Then, side by side, the two men walked out into the fog-shrouded night, Holmes closing the front door behind them.

The Doctor poked his head out of the TARDIS once more as they crossed the deserted street, grinning widely, drawing the obvious conclusion from their appearance. "Come on in, gentlemen!" he called cheerfully. "Oh, and Watson... prepare yourself for a shock, eh?" He winked at Holmes before disappearing back inside.

Watson faltered, glancing at Holmes a tad anxiously. "Should I be concerned for myself?"

Holmes shook his head, smiling reassuringly. "Not at all, Watson—but when it comes to the TARDIS, appearances can be... rather deceptive." To put it mildly... He released Watson's arm and gave him an encouraging nudge forwards, murmuring, "Simply keep an open mind as you enter."

Watson raised a sceptical eyebrow, but squared his shoulders once more, pushed open the TARDIS door and stepped inside...

* * *

The Doctor waited and watched as Watson froze, his features expressing the same shock that everyone had when entering the TARDIS for the first time. The human doctor stepped back out and looked hard at the unassuming exterior. Then he stepped back in, wide-eyed and pale. "H-how…?"

The Doctor was still grinning—_just wait until you see the _rest_ of the old girl, Watson_. "TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimension In Space."

The console gave a flurry of beeps and lights.

Holmes stepped inside, grinning as well, and placed a bracing hand on his friend's good shoulder. "If it helps, Watson… did you ever look into a kaleidoscope as a boy?"

Watson's reply was slow and still stunned. "Yes… but I fail to see any sort of analogy!" Even so, he looked around the room in awe.

The TARDIS gave an all-too-familiar outburst of lights and twitters, and the Doctor groaned. "Not agaaain! Holmes, you're turning her head again!" He turned on his girl with a glare. _I thought you'd gotten over this! No wonder you wanted us to come here!_

Even Watson must have heard the sass in her responding chirps.

Holmes smiled apologetically at the Time Lord—as well he ought to!—before turning towards the console. "It is a pleasure to see you again also, madam, and in such excellent health and spirits." He turned back to Watson. "The mirrors within a kaleidoscope create the illusion of a space far greater than the true dimensions of the cylinder itself, do they not?" he said patiently. "It is much the same for the TARDIS, except that the greater space within is no illusion—it is a tangible reality."

Said time machine twittered happily, pleased with the analogy.

Watson shook his head slowly, eyes still wide and obviously taking in the alien appearance and size of her. The Doctor ducked beneath the console to work on the wiring while he waited. "First a time machine," he heard Watson say, "then a time machine that is alive and female, and now a living, female time machine that is bigger on the inside?!"

The Doctor grinned again. "Ooo, he said the magic words!"

Holmes chuckled quietly. "Consider yourself fortunate, Watson! _My_ introduction to the TARDIS was in reverse! Imagine my shock, having spent some time moving through her corridors, stepping outside to discover that we were still in the same mountain village, and that her exterior was no bigger than a good-sized wardrobe!"

"Good heavens," Watson breathed. He walked slowly towards the console, and the Doctor looked up just in time to see him glancing up at the ceiling. The man's next words were hesitant. "Good evening, dear lady."

The TARDIS responded with a delighted outburst of lights and twitters.

"And now I remember why I stopped bringing along male Companions," the Doctor muttered. He shook his head and popped back out from beneath the console. "That was a 'hello' from her, by the way!" It was hardly Watson's fault, the Doctor supposed, if the man turned the TARDIS's metaphorical head… "'Hello, lovely to meet you'… Holmes picked up the gist of what she says fairly quickly—you shouldn't have much of a problem."

Watson shook his head. "I fear I have not half as swift a mind as my friend."

The console beeped encouragingly, and the Doctor had to grin. "The lady says otherwise!"

Watson inclined his head modestly, smiling. "You are too kind, madam. It is an honour to make your acquaintance." He bowed, and Holmes smiled—a kind of quietly proud smile.

The TARDIS responded with another flutter of happy beeps.

The Doctor dragged his hand over his face. "Ai-yi-yi." He couldn't help wondering, _Really, what _is_ it about Victorian gentlemen?_ The ones that were _real_ gentlemen like Holmes and Watson were always so amazingly chivalrous and all… He further supposed that he couldn't even blame his girl for having her head turned a little upon being treated so courteously…

Oh, enough of that. He straightened and rested a hand on the console. "All right, so! All of Time and Space at our fingertips, and you really wanna go meet Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre?"

Wonder and delight filled Watson's answering laugh. "Well, it was your suggestion, my dear sir, which I take to mean that you also have a hankering to meet the Bard! As for myself…" He smiled broadly, hazel eyes shining. "I can think of nothing I should like more. That is, if you have no objection, Holmes?"

Holmes spread his hands. "None whatsoever, Watson." His smile was brilliantly genuine, and the Doctor grinned to see it. "This is your first journey moreover, my dear fellow, and the choice therefore belongs to you. Shakespeare it shall be."

The Doctor clapped his hands, honestly excited. "_Molto bene_! London, 1599, it is! Oh, and Watson…" He flashed the man a mischievous grin, recalling Holmes's first flight. "Hold on tight."

Watson's eyes widened, and he followed Holmes's lead in grabbing hold of the edge of the console.

The Doctor threw back the lever with a cry of "_Allons-y!_" and the TARDIS shuddered out of 1895.

* * *

Mrs Hudson bustled up the hall from the kitchen as the front door banged shut. Mounting the stairs, she noted with approval that both her lodgers had at least had the good sense to wear their overcoats on such a dreadful night. She entered the abandoned sitting room, shaking her head at the paper snippets which still littered the carpet, and collected the teatray, resolving to revenge herself the next morning by cleaning the entire room. The thought made her smile with wicked satisfaction – if there was one thing Mr Holmes detested, it was having his clutter rearranged by anyone but himself!

_Thank the Lord that odd young man arrived when he did_, she mused gratefully. She prided herself on knowing Mr Holmes's moods almost as well as the doctor, and she too had been greatly concerned by his growing restlessness. Whatever case their eccentric visitor had brought him, it had clearly done the detective a power of good, if the renewed sparkle in his eye when she'd taken in the tea was any indication.

As she descended the seventeen steps (Mr Holmes wasn't the only one who noticed such details – she had to sweep them every day!), the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall began to sound the hour. Her brow furrowed as the last strike faded, something wasn't quite right… Glancing up at the clock face, it took her a few moments to realise what had caught her attention: the hands displayed the correct hour, nine o'clock... but the bell had only rung _eight_ times! Her lips pursed in annoyance; that grandfather clock had been in her family ever since she was a small girl, and had never even missed a beat, until tonight! She swept back down the hall to the kitchen, chin lifted haughtily. She would send for a clockmaker in the morning, and Heaven help Mr Holmes if she found he'd been 'experimenting' with the works...

* * *

**Author's Note from Ria:** And the plot thickens - before our boys have even gone anywhere! As you can probably guess, however, you'll need to wait until the finale to find out what it's all about...

Next stop: the Globe! Sorry it's taken so long, but Holmes and Watson wouldn't let us send them anywhere without a decent heart-to-heart. It's been over a year since Holmes' return, but those two have still got issues they haven't properly dealt with together yet, which will be _very_ important later on! Shh, spoilers...


	3. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**==Chapter Three==**

**Something Wicked This Way Comes**

_I'm not sure what I'll do, but – well, I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things happen on a big scale._

_–F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Ice Palace  
_

As the TARDIS took off, Watson clung tightly to the central apparatus, thanking Providence that he had been blessed with a strong stomach. Up until now, he'd only ever experienced such severe turbulence on ocean voyages! Above the grinding and wheezing, which sounded a great deal louder inside (and, now that Watson knew the source, much more worrying!), he heard the Doctor say in an affected, formal tone: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are now passing through the Time Vortex. Please be aware that if you let go, TARDIS Time Lines will not be responsible for any damages incurred, thank you."

"I realise I'm probably not the first to ask this," Watson called back, "but why such a rough ride?"

The Doctor abandoned the silly voice. "She's designed to be flown by a crew of six – that, and I didn't pass the driver's test!"

Watson swallowed hard. "Please tell me you're joking! How long have you been piloting her for, exactly?"

"Oh, seven... nine hundred years, give or take!" came what was probably _meant_ to be a reassuring response. "Don' worry - that much experience means more than any old test!"

There was a strained beeping from the TARDIS.

"Shush!" the Doctor chided down at the hexagonal control panel, lifting his head to smile at Watson sheepishly.

Watson's jaw dropped, a well-rehearsed action by now, and shook his own head weakly. It was starting to dawn on him that he might have been wise to ask a great many more questions before the Doctor had even left the sitting room...

Holmes was also holding on grimly, looking more than a little anxious himself. "Well, if you require extra hands to fly her, Doctor, surely even a pair of novices is better than nothing!"

The Doctor's eyes widened in horror. "What?! No, absolutely not! One wrong touch and we could end up in the middle of a black hole or supernova! I did just say seven to nine hundred years, right? Relax!" The wheezing groans sounded again, which seemed to be the signal for landing, seconds before the lurching stopped with a final thump. "See?" their host grinned saucily.

Watson let out a shaky breath, doing his best to relax. "Do I even want to know what either of those things you mentioned are?"

The Doctor tilted his head, considering. "Prob'ly not, no – 'sides which, I was never a very good science teacher." He winked. "You can look them up in the library - there's probably at least one book devoted to each, maybe more. So..." He gave both men an inviting smile, gesturing at the door. "Outside this door, brave new world. Care to take a look?"

Watson's apprehension turned rapidly back to awe – even with everything he'd seen so far, he was _still_ having trouble believing that they could actually have gone back in time! But, as the Doctor had said, the conclusive proof was waiting right outside, only a few steps away... Grinning with excitement, he glanced over at his friend, heart racing. "Well, Holmes?"

Holmes returned the grin, eyes gleaming, and nodded at the door. "By all means, Watson. After you!"

Unwilling to waste another second, Watson headed swiftly down the ramp, took a deep breath, then cautiously opened the door. His mouth fell open once more as he took in the scene before him. "Merciful God...!" he breathed in amazement.

"Good heavens," he heard Holmes murmur as the detective came up to stand behind him, sounding equally awestruck. Little wonder – although it was still nighttime, the narrow city lane the TARDIS was now parked in was a far cry from the respectable cobblestones of Baker Street. Despite the lateness of the hour, the street was thronged with people dressed in mostly plain Elizabethan clothing, going about their usual business in the light of blazing braziers and wall-mounted torches, and none of them showing the slightest sign of having noticed the sudden new arrival in their midst!

The Doctor came up behind the two of them, inhaling a deep lungful of the night air with obvious relish. "Mm, 1599, and still very London!"

Watson took a cautious breath of his own, nose wrinkling as a familiar, pungent mix of scents – smoke, dung and a populace desperately in need of soap – greeted him forcibly. "Indeed, it certainly smells exactly the same," he smiled wryly, then nodded curiously at the oblivious passersby. "Doctor, why don't they see us? Are we... invisible?" An idea he would have called ridiculous less than an hour ago, but under the present circumstances, he was prepared to believe that almost anything was possible!

"Not exactly," the Doctor replied, smiling encouragingly. "Holmes, you wanna explain this one?"

Holmes smiled back, clearly flattered by the invitation, before turning to Watson. "The TARDIS has a safeguard called a perception filter. Most people who see her will forget her again the next instant – excluding her passengers, of course," he amended.

Watson nodded, impressed. "Most useful, especially considering her outward appearance!" He could only assume that there was some purpose to the Time Lord's vessel looking as she did, although he couldn't even imagine what that might be, as yet.

The Doctor clapped approvingly at Holmes. "Very good! Lovely thing, i'n she? C'mon, you two," he grinned. "If we don't leg it, we'll miss whatever play they're performing at the Globe!"

Watson stood aside to let the Doctor exit the TARDIS, grinning himself in delight at the reminder of why they were here in the first place. "Lead on, Doctor."

The two men followed the Doctor closely as he strode purposefully along the unpaved street. "So, whaddaya boys think?" he drawled cheerfully over his shoulder, waving a hand at their surroundings. "Elizabethan England! Largely built of one of the most distinctive British architectural styles... And, looks aside, not so different from your own time."

Suddenly, Watson felt himself being grasped by both shoulders and yanked abruptly to one side, as the call of "Gardyloo!" came from above – followed the next instant by a pailful of reeking slops, which splattered onto the straw-strewn earth right where he and Holmes had just been walking.

"Indeed not," Holmes dryly remarked, straightening Watson's coat on his shoulders again in unspoken apology for the rough treatment – not that his friend minded in the least!

"Apart from the invention of the toilet," the Doctor murmured ruefully. "Sorry about that."

"Thanks, Holmes!" Watson breathed, still wide-eyed from the narrow shave. Not the deadliest ambush they'd ever encountered, but potentially the most embarrassing, especially since neither of them had thought to bring along a change of clothes.

"Don't mention it, Watson," Holmes smiled, also looking relieved. "But please do remember to look up occasionally. Unwashed masses notwithstanding, I hardly think they'd allow you into the theater covered in sewage."

Watson clapped Holmes gratefully on the back as the Doctor snickered happily, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Speaking of which... how much further, Doctor?"

The Time Lord strode forward a few more paces to the next corner and broke into a grin, pointing. "See for yourself."

Watson hastened to join him, then stopped dead, staring in awe. "Well, I'll be blessed...!" he whispered reverently. There, only a stone's throw from the Thames, stood the Globe Theater, in all its newly-constructed glory: white walls and thatched roof gleaming in the light of a full moon, banners fluttering at the gable ends, all its windows glowing golden.

He might have simply continued to stand in the street, drinking in the glorious sight, had Holmes not come up beside him, breaking his reverie by gently nudging him in the ribs. "My dear Watson," the detective inquired amiably, offering his arm once again, "would you care to accompany me to the theater this evening?"

Watson laughed, linking arms with his friend. "Indeed, Holmes!" Then he stopped as a sudden thought struck him. "Wait... Doctor, how are we going to get in? Neither of us has any legal tender for a ticket!"

The Doctor whistled innocently as he strode slowly past them. "Ohhh, I wouldn't worry too much about that," he said with an airy smile. "I've got my ways..."

Exchanging intrigued glances, Holmes and Watson followed him up the street to the theater's main entrance. The Time Lord dug around in his pockets as they approached, winking mischievously at Holmes over his shoulder. Holmes gave a silent huff of laughter, murmuring to Watson, "The man's coat has something in common with his vessel: the pockets are bigger on the inside..."

"Rule One of time travel," the Doctor responded gleefully, betraying a much sharper sense of hearing than he had demonstrated thus far. "Always come prepared."

Watson shook his head yet again, silently adding this newest information to the end of an increasingly long list of astonishments, some of which he might _possibly_ become at ease with in the near future! One had to hope...

The Doctor turned from the ticket seller's table, holding three rough clay discs. "We're later than I thought !" he exclaimed, jerking his head impatiently towards the studded double doors, the actors' voices barely audible out here over the persistent hubbub from the audience. "C'mon, c'mon – it's almost over!"

* * *

The actors took their bows to tumultuous applause from the crowd, including the three time-travellers at the back of the pit, Holmes with considerably less enthusiasm than his companions. As he had already told the Doctor, Shakespeare was far from being the detective's favourite playwright; Holmes' forays into the world of theater usually consisted of German opera. Admittedly, however, the plotlines of most of those had as little depth as any of the Bard's comedies...

Watson looked over at the Doctor standing on his right, beaming. "Doctor, this is amazing! It was worth making the journey just for this!"

The Doctor laughed delightedly. "We wanted to see Shakespeare, though, right?" He gave an encouraging nod. "If you're gonna time-travel, go for the gold!"

Watson nodded back enthusiastically, scanning the stage. "Where is the man? Shouldn't he be taking a bow with everyone else?" Impulsively, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "Author! Author!"

Holmes sighed and raised his eyes to the heavens, trying to look like he just happened to be standing next to the other two.

Watson glanced sideways at the Doctor, suddenly uncertain. "Do people actually shout that these days?"

Then another man behind them took up the chant, which rapidly spread through the pit and all three galleries. The Doctor smiled wryly. "They do now. Congrats."

Watson turned back to Holmes, grinning a little sheepishly. "Sorry, Holmes!" The detective smiled back in resigned amusement, an affectionate gleam in his eye.

Just then, the audience erupted into even louder cheers and whistles as a bearded man with a full head of fair hair emerged from backstage and took a flourishing bow, before advancing to centre stage, blowing kisses to the crowd.

Watson's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Good Lord, he doesn't look much like his portraits!" The man was clad in an open black leather doublet over a white shirt, with black breeches and boots; combined with the gold ring in his left ear, the ensemble served to make William Shakespeare look more like a buccaneer than a playwright.

"Genius," the Doctor murmured, eyes shining, unable to contain his excitement. "He's a genius, _the_ genius, the most human human there's ever been. And now we're going to hear him speak! Always, he chooses the best words - new, beautiful, _brilliant_ words."

Shakespeare took a deep breath, drawing himself up to his considerable height... then punched the air in front of him and shouted good-naturedly, "Ah, shut your big, fat mouths!"

The Doctor grimaced as the crowd roared with mirth. "Oh, well..."

Watson sighed mournfully, shaking his head. "One should never meet one's idols..."

Holmes snorted with laughter himself at the irony, clapping Watson on the shoulder in consolation. "Never mind, old fellow – if I recall correctly, the man uses far more colourful insults than that in his written work!"

"You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that," Shakespeare smiled. "Oh, that's a wig!" pointing at a bushy haired man at the front of the pit. "I know what you're all saying," he continued, pacing to and fro. "'Love's Labours Lost', that's a funny ending, isn't it? It just stops. Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle, you'll find out soon. Yeah, yeah – all in good time! You don't rush a genius." He bowed, then suddenly jerked upright again, eyes wide, his expression strangely blank.

Holmes' brow furrowed as the crowd hushed once more, expectantly.

"When?" The playwright's voice possessed a distinctly stunned quality. "Tomorrow night." There was yet more cheering. Shakespeare carried on, still looking dazed: "A sequel, no less, and I call it... 'Love's Labours Won'!"

Holmes glanced over at Watson and the Doctor as the audience applauded wildly, noting with interest that both his companions were also frowning deeply. Above the noise, he heard the Time Lord remark seriously to his friend, "Watson... you know what that is, right?"

"As would any Shakespeare enthusiast, Doctor," Watson murmured, sounding markedly more curious than anxious. "'Love's Labours Won' is the famous _lost_ play. No one has ever seen a copy of the work – not in our time, at least!"

"Nor in any other time," the Doctor muttered back. "Never turns up. No one knows why."

Holmes craned his neck over the crush of people beginning to trickle slowly out of the theater, trying to get a better look at the stage and its occupants. "And why do the rest of the company look equally astonished?"

"I don't know..." The Doctor's voice changed from a worried murmur to a teasing singsong: "...but I hear an intrigued detective!"

Holmes threw him a sideways smirk. "Don't pretend you are not equally intrigued, Doctor! Do I infer we shall be staying in 1599 a little longer than expected?" he asked innocently.

The Doctor echoed the smirk, his eyes holding a familiar gleam. "Who am I to withhold this experience from a Shakespeare enthusiast and a private consulting detective?"

Watson sighed deeply, glancing at Holmes in resignation. "You truly did not exaggerate, Holmes, did you?" The detective suppressed a chuckle as his friend shook his head, muttering, "Two of them, by God! Heaven help me..."

* * *

On the case again with Sherlock Holmes—and this time with Dr. Watson, as well. The Doctor felt nearly giddy, because, _come on_, this was just brilliant. And the three of them were about to meet William Shakespeare, never mind his maybe-just-a-tad-bit-vulgar mouth!

Speaking of which… "I've just got the final scene to go," the Doctor heard him say. "You'll get it by morning."

The Time Lord poked his head into Shakespeare's room at the 'Elephant' Inn, taking note of the two actors sitting at the desk with the playwright. "Hello! Excuse me, not interrupting, am I?" He stepped fully into the room. "Mister Shakespeare, isn't it?"

Shakespeare groaned, passing a hand over his face. "Oh, no. No, no, no. Who let you in? No autographs. No, you can't have yourself sketched with me. And please don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest. Now be a good boy and shove—"

Holmes and Watson trailed in behind the Doctor, and Shakespeare really _looked_ at his visitors for the first time. He raised an eyebrow and turned to his actors. "You two get sewing on them costumes. Off you go."

The Doctor pulled out the psychic paper and showed it to the playwright as the others left. "I'm Sir Doctor of TARDIS, and these are my companions, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." Both men bowed as they were introduced. Victorian manners, couldn't beat 'em.

"Interesting, that bit of paper," Shakespeare mused. "It's blank."

The Doctor's eyes widened as he smiled. "Oh, that's very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius."

Holmes peered over his shoulder at the paper. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Doctor, what is this document?"

The Doctor winced—Holmes must have really wanted to see something… He stuffed the psychic back into his coat pocket. "Ah, psychic paper. Er, long story. Ooo…"

"Psychic?" Shakespeare's interest appeared to be languid, but then, that was how Watson described Holmes listening to a client in the stories. "Never heard that before, and words are my trade. Who are you exactly?"

Holmes cut in smoothly before the Doctor could reply. "As our friend has told you already, Master Shakespeare, it is something of a long and complicated story. The three of us have travelled a great distance and have only just arrived in town, so please excuse us if we seem a little disoriented."

Shakespeare smiled drily. "And yet your differing accents speak clearly of London."

The Doctor grinned, liking this man more and more. Just then, however, a pompous-looking individual blustered into the room. "Excuse me!" More of a demand, that, if you asked the Doctor. "Hold hard a moment. This is abominable behaviour. A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mister Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed."

"Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it round," Shakespeare said patiently.

"I don't work to your schedule," the censor sneered, "you work to mine. The script, now!"

"I can't."

"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled." All right, the man was really enjoying cutting at Shakespeare a little too much. Evidently not one of the Bard's fans…

The copper-haired maid that had been cleaning off to the side now left, her pretty but slightly pinched face oddly on-edge. Perhaps an admirer who didn't like to see the object of her admiration bullied?

"I'm returning to my office for a banning order," the censor continued. "If it's the last thing I do, 'Love's Labours Won' will never be played." He left the room with the same flare with which he'd entered.

Watson whistled once the man would have been safely out of earshot. "And I thought _my_ editor was demanding!"

Shakespeare sighed. "You've no idea." His eyes wandered over Watson with fresh interest. "So, a writer, are you?"

Watson nodded, smiling. "Nothing of your quality, my dear sir—more of a humble chronicler, really."

The Doctor shook his head and said in an affectionate singsong, "He's really too modest…"

Shakespeare grinned. "That's the way all good writers should be. The arrogant ones such as myself only garner problems such as _him_." He gestured broadly in the direction that the censor had gone.

"Why not just give him whatever you have of the manuscript?" Watson wondered. "Surely you make copies? At the very least, it might keep the man occupied until you can write the final scene."

Shakespeare arched an eyebrow. _Is that just a genius thing, the eyebrow? _the Doctor wondered. "Good Watson, you _saw _the man. Did he look to you like one who would accept an unfinished work, no matter how close?" Screaming split the air, and Shakespeare sat upright in his chair for the first time since they'd come in. "Good God…"

The Victorian men stiffened, traded glances, and moved as one for the stairs. The Doctor caught himself in a stupid moment of fanboying and ran after them, quickly passing them and moving at breakneck speed for the source of the commotion outside. It turned out to be the censor, kneeling in the midst of the courtyard and spewing copious amounts of water.

The Doctor and Holmes burst out about the same time, Holmes calling sharply: "Watson, it's the philostrate!"

The Time Lord reached the censor as he collapsed. "Watson, you'd better leave this to me! Look at 'im!" He didn't mean to offend Watson, but the man was a Victorian army surgeon and GP, and this was a positively _paranormal_ situation. Watson hurried to the censor's side anyway as the Doctor was already taking the pulse. There was none, and he grimaced. "John, trust me," he urged, "there's nothing more you can do for him!"

"I swore an oath, Doctor," the man retorted angrily. "Your medical knowledge may far exceed my own, but I cannot simply stand back and do nothing!"

The Doctor gritted his teeth and nodded. "Try to clear his airway, then."

Watson rolled the censor onto his side—more water gushed out. The Doctor had to admit to himself that the sight was more than a bit sickening. His Victorian colleague's eyes widened. "What in blazes…?" He felt for a pulse, and, of course, there was none. He cursed softly.

"I've never seen a death like it," the Doctor said soberly. "His lungs are full of water. He drowned and then... I don't know, like a blow to the heart, an invisible blow."

Watson closed the corpse's glassy eyes. "Poor devil… How is it possible, Doctor, for a man to perish in such a fashion?"

The Time Lord looked down and shook his head. A few theories, but no solid ideas yet.

Holmes came forward silently, crouched fluidly like a cat, and placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. The Doctor watched sadly, realising that he was 'doing it' already. He turned to the landlady, Dolly, looking out from the inn, and rose wearily to his feet. "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural if unfortunate demise. Call a constable and have him taken away."

"Yes, sir."

The maid the Doctor had noticed a few minutes earlier came forward and said, "I'll do it, ma'am." She left, and the Doctor turned back to his Co—fellow travellers.

Holmes was regarding him contemplatively. "A plausible explanation for the general public, Doctor, but I highly doubt that you truly believe the philostrate's death a mere accident."

The Doctor nodded once, slowly. "Well, he certainly couldn't've died naturally."

"Have you any idea of who—or what—might be responsible for this?" Holmes's expression was grim. "I could be mistaken, but it seems entirely too much of a coincidence that the man who was about to put a stop to tomorrow's performance of the infamous lost work has just been eliminated."

"Yeaaah." _Well, nothing else for it,_ he supposed. "No idea as to the _who_, but as to the _what_…" He glanced between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and said drily, "Witchcraft."

* * *

**Author's note from Sky:**

I would just like to say that…

_Children of Time_ is a massive undertaking for fanfiction. It's a crossover on three levels (the third has yet to appear). It's a series the length of an actual television series (programme, in Brit English). It's a collaboration between two women living roughly halfway across the world from each other.

So… a little more feedback on our work thus far would be _immensely_ appreciated. We have put so much time, thought, love, and even heartbreak into these stories. It would be really, really lovely to get more feedback from those of you that are reading it.

Please?


	4. Toil and Trouble

**==Chapter Four==**

**Toil and Trouble**

"_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."_

– _William Shakespeare, __As You Like It_

A pair of constables arrived in short order and carted the philostrate's body away to the nearest chapel. Normally, Holmes would have examined the corpse himself before removal; under these circumstances, however, he doubted he could have discovered much more than the two doctors had already. As the companions followed Shakespeare back upstairs, Holmes eyed Watson's troubled expression in deep concern, taking care to remain at his friend's side. Watson always took the loss of any patient personally, just as Holmes did his clients; and the detective also knew – only too well! – what it was like to discover the darker side of travelling with the Doctor, the chief reason he'd hesitated when the Time Lord had first renewed the invitation.

It was the callous indifference of the murderer which Holmes found the most disturbing. Despite being the archetypal bureaucrat, Lynley had only been attempting to carry out the duties of his appointed office – as far as Holmes could tell, he'd committed no worse crime than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given the murderer's disregard for collateral damage, without swift intervention, many more innocents would most likely suffer a similar fate...

His musings were interrupted by Mistress Bailey. The buxom landlady addressed the Doctor respectfully, "I got you a room, Sir Doctor. You and your friends are just across the landing."

Watson turned to the woman with his usual pleasant smile. "Thank you, madam, you're very kind." Holmes wasn't surprised when the landlady blushed like a schoolgirl before reluctantly quitting the room. Watson still had the power to charm the female sex with ease, often unwittingly; not that Holmes begrudged him the ability, it had proved extremely useful on numerous occasions.

Shakespeare looked up from the chair which he had dropped into with a weary sigh. "Poor Lynley. So many strange events – not the least of which are three strangers who appear to be of London and yet are not..." His penetrating gaze settled on Holmes leaning against the wall, arms folded as he coolly returned the scrutiny. "And there's more to you than that, is there not? The eyes of a man of science, but the hands of a musician."

There was a quiet chuckle from the Doctor, who was looking increasingly impressed, despite his pensive air since Lynley's collapse. Holmes had to admit, Shakespeare's close attention to detail was admirable, but he saw no need to pander to the playwright's self-confessed vanity – his companions were already doing enough of that!

Shakespeare turned his attention to the Doctor. "And you, Sir Doctor. How can a man so young have eyes so old?"

"I do a lot of reading," the Doctor responded without a blink, his grave expression returning.

"A trite reply, yeah," the playwright remarked with a knowing smirk. "That's what I'd do. And you?" turning to Watson, "You look at him like you're surprised he exists. He's as much of a puzzle to you as he is to me."

Watson shook his head, smiling wryly. "And then there were three..." he murmured. "It's getting late, Holmes – perhaps we should turn in."

"And I must work," Shakespeare nodded, turning to look semi-reluctantly at the pile of blank pages awaiting him. "I have a play to complete." He levered himself out of the chair and walked around the table to his customary seat, while the Doctor rose from where he'd been half-sitting on the nearby bookshelf and ambled across to the door, hands in his pockets. "But I'll get my answers tomorrow, you three, and I'll discover more about you and why this constant performance of yours."

The Doctor paused in the doorway a moment. "All the world's a stage," he responded pointedly, and Holmes had the strong suspicion that there was more significance to the quote than merely inspiring Shakespeare with his own future work.

"Hmm. I might use that," the playwright mused, looking intrigued. "Goodnight, Sir Doctor."

"Nighty-night, Shakespeare," the Doctor replied softly, and strolled out of the room.

Watson had been chuckling quietly at the Doctor's ploy, but forebore to comment. "All the best with the last scene, my dear sir. Coming, Holmes?"

Holmes straightened, nodding a silent but courteous 'goodnight' to their host. "Indeed." He followed his friend out and down the passage to their own room, where the Doctor stood waiting at the door.

Watson stepped inside and surveyed the plain yet comfortable room with mild approval. "Not exactly the Clarendon, but it'll do. We've certainly stayed in worse."

Holmes nodded. "You and the Doctor take the bed, Watson – there is only enough room for two." And barely enough room, at that.

"Well, in that case, you'd better have these," Watson remarked dryly, collecting the pillow cushions and tossing them at the detective, mercifully choosing not to argue on this occasion. "The last thing we need is you pacing the floor all night."

Ignoring the Doctor's faint grin, Holmes fielded the cushions with ease, then piled them up in the corner in a makeshift divan and settled himself cross-legged, wishing he had brought one of his pipes – it would have been a great help in relaxing him after the event-filled evening they'd just passed.

Watson stretched himself out on the bed, his expression one of distinct relief, clearly much tireder than he was prepared to admit. "So... witchcraft?" he mused aloud, turning to look at the Doctor in confusion. "I thought you were a man of science, Doctor. Isn't that just a little too 'Macbeth'?"

The Doctor glanced at Holmes. "Remember what I said about myths and legends?"

Holmes nodded, recalling their extremely informative visit to the library at Sera monastery. "Unless one has proof that a legend is not real, it is best to assume that it is."

"Exactly," the Doctor said approvingly, starting to pace the floor himself.

Watson's eyes widened. "_Excuse_ me?!" leaning up on his elbow to stare at the detective. "Who are you, sir, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

The Doctor stopped and gave a genuine laugh. "Well, Watson, 'm afraid he has the experience to back that up!"

Holmes smiled faintly. "I did mention earlier, Watson, did I not, that Tibet was something of an eye opener." He couldn't quite resist quoting: "'There are more things in heaven and earth...'" then paused thoughtfully. "Has the man actually written 'Hamlet' yet?"

The Doctor shook his head, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "He hasn't written 'As You Like It' yet, either."

Watson snorted. "I noticed!"

The Doctor grinned and leant against the wall, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Creates a bit of a paradox, but it's pretty harmless. Perk of being a time-traveller."

"But seriously, Doctor," Watson frowned, "Witches, black magic? All of that is _real_?"

"Course it isn't!" the Time Lord scoffed. "Looks like witchcraft but it isn't. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic'. Arthur C. Clarke," he elaborated.

"So what kind of technology are we dealing with here?" Holmes asked, not bothering to inquire who Clarke was – most likely some future scientist or other.

The Doctor's eyes were distant, considering. "There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human couldn't channel it like that. Not without a generator the size of Taunton and I think we'd have spotted that... No, there's something I'm missing, you two. Something really close, staring me right in the face and I can't see it. Rose'd..." He stopped, blinking out of his reverie, looking pained.

Holmes glanced away, pretending to study a nearby wall hanging. Watson, on the other hand, gave the Doctor a long, steady look, full of quiet sympathy, although he tactfully refrained from asking the obvious question.

To Holmes' surprise, the Doctor answered anyway. "Friend of mine, Rose," he murmured. "Kind of my own Watson..." He broke off again, shaking his head. "Never mind – you boys get some sleep."

Watson's brow furrowed. "You do not sleep, Doctor?"

"Nope," the Time Lord responded glibly. Holmes' cleared throat and arched eyebrow earned the detective a defiant stare. "I _don't_."

"And I do not generally sleep while on a case, Doctor, as Watson can attest to," Holmes quietly pointed out. He nodded at the other half of the bed. "At the very least, get some rest." The Doctor held his gaze a few moments longer, then walked to the bed and sat down, leaning back against the wall.

Watson shook his head, cracking a yawn. "Good night, you two." He turned over and blew out the candle beside the bed, pillowing his head on his arm.

"Sleep well, Watson," Holmes smiled, and was answered by a gentle snore.

The Doctor broke into a soft grin. "Army man," he murmured affectionately.

Holmes echoed the grin. "I must admit, I envy him that talent at times."

"Mm..."

"Doctor..." Holmes began.

The Doctor exhaled heavily. "What."

The detective considered the Time Lord, the stubborn set of his chin telling Holmes that he would have to be content with the small success. "Never mind," he sighed, tipping his head back into the corner for support. "Good night, Doctor."

"G'night, Sherlock," came the soft, sad response.

Holmes closed his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts on the little he had learned thus far about the case – anything to distract himself from the still-raw pain in the Doctor's expression. By the alien's own admission, it had only been a fortnight for him since they'd parted ways in Tibet; the last words the Doctor had spoken to Holmes on the subject continued to trouble him. As for the effect their leaving would have on Watson, once this business was concluded... Returning to the slow path was likely going to be just as difficult for him as it had been for Holmes. Thank God this was only the one trip...

A strangled scream pierced the air, snapping Holmes awake; his eyes flew open in time to see the Doctor flinging the door open and disappearing down the passageway. He jumped up and hurried to Watson's side, shaking him by the arm. "Watson!"

Watson lifted his head blearily, already partially roused by the scream. "Holmes? What the deuce...?" He groaned as he noticed the Doctor's absence and let Holmes pull him to his feet. "_Now_ what?"

"Come on!" came the Doctor's shout from down the passage.

The two men were swift to follow and found the Doctor just inside the door of Shakespeare's room, kneeling beside the fallen body of a woman – Dolly Bailey. Shakespeare was still seated at the table, blinking dazedly as if he'd only just awoken from a deep slumber, a quill held loosely in his ink-stained fingers. They'd passed no one in the passage, but the window behind the playwright was now wide open; on instinct, Holmes rushed over to it as Watson crouched beside the Doctor. The detective gaped in disbelief at the spectacle: the full moon still hung above the smoke-wreathed rooftops of Southwark, and silhouetted against it was... a cackling figure dressed in flowing black, flying away from the window on a... broomstick?!

Behind him, he heard the Doctor murmur bemusedly to Watson, "Her heart gave out – she died of fright!"

"Doctor?" Holmes called, not taking his eyes off the bizarre spectacle in front of him.

The Doctor jumped up and hurried over to stand at his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I am not certain," Holmes breathed. "But at first glance, it would appear to be a witch!"

* * *

"Ohhh, this just gets better and better." The Doctor didn't doubt Holmes for one moment: if the Great Detective thought he had seen a witch, he probably had. At least, what humans had long since taken to be witches. Good grief...

Watson looked up from where he was checking on Shakespeare. "You were saying, Doctor?" he said sarcastically.

The Doctor turned fully to him, sighing in exasperation. "And I was Merlin, all right, Watson?"

The man raised an eyebrow and turned back to Shakespeare. "Are you all right?"

The playwright blinked and shook his head. "What most concerns me is that I actually seem to understand something of what just passed amongst you three." 'Course he would. Genius and all that. "Bit of a headache but none the worse for wear, unlike poor Dolly."

Holmes's expression was openly curious. "You did not see anything of what occurred?" His gaze drifted to the still-lit candle on the desk, and the Doctor noted how far it had burned down since they said goodnight.

"No," Shakespeare said slowly, expression bemused. "I was writing… and the next thing I knew, I heard her scream."

Watson gave the desk a once-over. "Well, you seem to have finished the work."

"And it would appear," Holmes continued, "that you fell asleep the instant it was complete—you were still holding the quill when we entered and the candle had not been extinguished."

The Bard frowned. "Not my custom to fall asleep so swiftly upon finishing a play…" The Doctor wouldn't have thought so, either, and he would bet anything that Holmes's witch had something to do with it.

The philostrate's death had been horrific, but there was something terribly sad about seeing Dolly's lifeless body stretched out on their bed. Even Shakespeare was subdued. "Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey. She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place when we all ran like rats. What could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit."

The Doctor frowned, understanding how Shakespeare felt all too well. "_Rage_," he murmured, "_rage against the dying of the light_."

Shakespeare looked up, smirking but only halfheartedly; his eyes were sad. Old. "I might use that.

"You can't. It's someone else's."

Holmes frowned. "But the odd thing is: Lynley drowned on dry land, Miss Bailey died of fright, and they were both connected to you."

Shakespeare glanced at him, brow furrowing. "You're accusing me?"

"Of course not, sir," Watson soothed. "But Holmes did just see what appeared to be a witch escaping the scene of the crime—and you yourself have written about witches."

Oh, great. Shakespeare seemed confused, as well he ought to be. "I have? When was that?"

"Not, ah, not quite yet," the Doctor interjected, grimacing as he did so.

Shakespeare did a double take, and the Doctor winced. Just how much would the Bard work out when all was said and done? "Peter Streete," the man said slowly, "spoke of witches…"

Holmes came to life like a bloodhound catching the scent. "Who is Peter Streete?"

"Our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."

"The architect," said the Doctor. Something was niggling at his mind, something… "Hold on. The architect!" Of course! "The architect! The Globe! Come on!"

* * *

In just a few minutes and even fewer questions asked, the Doctor was standing on the Globe's stage and studying the design. "Fourteen sides. I've always wondered, but I never asked. Tell me, Will: why fourteen sides?"

"It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all. Said it carried the sound well."

"Fourteen," the Doctor mused. "Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen…"

Watson scrubbed at his moustache in thought. "Well, there are fourteen lines in a sonnet…"

"So there are." The Time Lord nodded. "Good point. Words and shapes following the same design. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets. Oh, my head. Tetradecagon. Think, think, think! Words, letters, numbers, lines!" He was so close, he knew he was so close, if only, if only, if only…

"This is just a theatre," Shakespeare protested.

"Oh yeah, but a theatre's magic, isn't it? You should know. Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis at the right time. Oh, you can make men weep, or cry with joy. Change them. You can change people's minds just with words in this place. But if you exaggerate that…" So close, so close, so close…

"It is much like the TARDIS, Doctor, is it not?" said Holmes. "A seemingly small vessel, with the power of… With unlimited power within."

Oo, brilliant analogy, that. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes, I love you." The Doctor grinned. "Tell you what, though. Peter Streete would know. Can I talk to him?"

"You won't get an answer," Shakespeare said gravely. "A month after finishing this place, he lost his mind."

Watson frowned, eyes wide beneath his thick brows. "What happened to him?"

"Started raving about… witches…" Shakespeare looked like he was starting to piece things together. "Hearing voices… babbling. His mind was addled."

The Doctor had a sinking feeling he knew what had become of Peter Streete, but he asked anyway. "Where is he now?"

"Bedlam."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "Bethlem Hospital?"

Shakespeare nodded.

The Doctor leapt off the stage and stalked for the exit—this wasn't going to be pretty. "We're going there, then. Right now. Come on."

Shakespeare called after him, "Wait! I'm coming with you. I want to witness this at first hand."

The Doctor heard Holmes and Watson following him, and Shakespeare giving his actors their scripts. "…you never know, the Queen might turn up." The Time Lord couldn't help smiling just a little as the man muttered, "As if. She never does."

* * *

**Author's note from Ria:**

Many thanks to all those who made an effort to review since we last posted! We've also had a fair few people expressing surprise that this episode follows the original so closely. In our defense, though, we did state on our authors' page that some episodes would seem very familiar, and I'd just like to state for the record that even writing an established scene accurately yet interestingly can be quite the challenge! Take heart, folks, you ain't seen nothin' yet! Next stop, Bethlem, and the Doctor's right: it's not going to be pretty...


	5. More Things In Heaven And Earth

**==Chapter Five==**

**More Things In Heaven And Earth**

_"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win."_

– _Stephen King_

The four men hastened across London Bridge, a far cry from the elegant, tower-crowned span that would eventually replace it. Both sides of the bridge were crammed with shops and houses, connected overhead by numerous passageways, the central thoroughfare packed with people, animals and carts. Watson was chagrined to find himself more than a little revolted by the gatehouse on the southern bank, with its decoration of severed heads impaled on spikes. Traitors to the Crown or not, there had to be better ways of deterring a populace from the cut-throat world of politics...

He gratefully turned his attention from the grisly sight to Master Shakespeare hurrying along beside him, the Doctor and Holmes slightly further ahead as they dodged and wove their way through the crush. The playwright gave Watson's discomfort a sympathetic grin, musing, "So, John Watson. John. A common name for an uncommon man, I think."

Watson blushed crimson at the unexpected praise. "You are too kind, sir."

Holmes, who had lagged behind the Doctor for a moment to allow them to catch up, chuckled deeply at his friend's reaction, clapping him on the shoulder. "And you, my dear Watson, are far too modest."

"Indeed," Shakespeare replied easily. "You, Sherlock Holmes, and the Doctor are obviously geniuses. Your dear friend, on the other hand, possesses hidden depths. John, you call yourself a chronicler." He inclined his head at Holmes. "Do you chronicle _his_ life?"

Watson's brows shot up. "I do, as it happens. How did you know?" Ironic, really – the number of times he had asked _Holmes_ that very question...

Shakespeare waved a casual hand. "Oh, you and your friend have obviously known each other for years. Mr. Holmes is a genius; you are a writer. It's elementary, my dear Watson," he remarked, then raised an eyebrow in bewilderment as Watson snorted with laughter, while Holmes closed his eyes with a grimace, sighing deeply.

* * *

It was midday by the time they reached Bishop's Gate in the northern wall; just beyond the wall lay St. Mary of Bethlem's Priory, better known to the general public as 'Bedlam'. The first thing which impressed itself on the visitors was the smell. Elizabethan London was no bed of roses at the best of times, but even the entryway stank like an open sewer, and it only got worse as they descended to the lower level, following behind the oily, flail-wielding ruffian who held the office of Keeper. There was also a constant clamour from the inmates imprisoned down here, the ones considered too dangerous or disturbed to ever be set at liberty. Sobs, screams, violent swearing and wild laughter merged together to leave the four in no doubt of how the 'hospital' had acquired its time-honoured handle.

Now it was Watson's turn to look at Holmes in concern – although the doctor had never been a keen supporter of this institution, even in their own time, he had at least had a fair idea of what to expect. The detective, on the other hand, looked downright aghast, his normally pale face even more ashen. Watson silently resolved to wait ten minutes at most, then insist that Holmes return at once to the open air.

The keeper strolled blithely ahead of them along the rows of cells, dodging the prisoners' clutching hands and missiles of goodness-knew-what flung at him with practiced ease, landing the occasional blow on an outstretched arm with apparent relish. "Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits?" he asked over his shoulder. "I'd whip these madmen; they'll put on a good show for you. Mad dog in Bedlam."

"No, I don't!" the Doctor snapped, eyes blazing.

The man shrugged, his disappointment obvious. "Well, wait here a moment, my lords. I'll just make sure he's decent."

"And still more similarities," Watson muttered as the thug continued on down the corridor. If possible, Holmes was looking even more appalled at the realisation that the conditions here would remain essentially unaltered for the next three centuries.

"And I can't wait for you lot to get past them," the Doctor replied tightly, glaring at the keeper's back, fists clenched.

Holmes turned to Shakespeare, simmering with anger himself. "So, this is what _you_ would call a hospital, sir? Where the patients are whipped to entertain the gentry?" His voice grew cold. "And you left your friend in here to rot..."

"Oh, and it's all so different where you come from?" Shakespeare retorted, the irony in his voice silencing the seething detective. "I've been mad," the playwright continued flatly. "I've lost my mind. Fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose."

"What happened?" Watson asked softly, hearing the man's pain clearly behind the matter-of-fact tone.

"You lost your son," the Doctor murmured, gaze unflinching.

Shakespeare nodded. "My only boy. The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there..."

Watson closed his eyes a moment, striving to master his own rising memories... "I'm so sorry."

"It made me question everything," the playwright said, sighing. "The futility of this fleeting existence. To be or not to be..." He paused, eyes gleaming. "Oh, that's quite good."

"You should write that down," the Doctor suggested casually.

"Hm, maybe not. A bit pretentious?"

The Time Lord gave a noncommittal shrug, and the subject was dropped next moment as the keeper returned.

Peter Streete, when they arrived at his cell, was in much the same state as the rest of the poor devils in this hell-hole: filthy, ragged and half starved, hunched over on the edge of his narrow cot, back toward them, head bowed. He flinched at the sound of jangling keys as the keeper unlocked the door, but gave no other sign of being at all aware of their presence.

"They can be dangerous, m'lord," the keeper warned, his self-important tone making a disgusted Watson yearn for the fresh air more than the overwhelming stench did. "Don't know their own strength..."

"I think it helps if you don't whip them!" the Doctor retorted, looking himself as if he was on the verge of giving the thug a sound thrashing with his own flail. "Now, get out!"

Watson nodded in grim approval as the keeper exited the cell in a huff, locking the door behind him. "Brute..."

The Doctor turned away, his frown rapidly supplanted by a look of deep compassion as he moved to kneel in front of Peter. "Peter? Peter Streete?"

"He's the same as he was." Shakespeare shook his head, sorrowful but resigned. "You'll get nothing out of him."

The Doctor ignored him and laid a gentle hand on Peter's shoulder. "Peter..."

Watson started in surprise as Peter's head jerked up, staring at the Doctor with wild, glassy eyes, trembling, lips parted as if on the verge of speech. Chiding himself for his nervous reaction, Watson resisted the urge to move forward, loathe to break whatever hypnotic influence the Time Lord seemed to be exerting over the architect. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked Holmes softly.

"I believe this is one time we should leave him to it, old fellow..." The detective's tone spoke clearly of firsthand experience in such matters. "But stand by, all the same."

The Doctor carefully reached up to Peter's temples with both hands, fingers parted in a 'V'. "Peter, I'm the Doctor," he murmured, careful to keep eye contact. "Go into the past. One year ago. Let your mind go back. Back to when everything was fine and shining. Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story. A winter's tale. Let go..."

Peter shuddered, then began to relax back onto the cot, the Doctor easing him down gently. "That's it. That's it, just let go..." He released the architect once the man's head was resting on the cot frame and straightened, his eyes kind but grave. Watson suddenly had no difficulty in accepting that the Time Lord was as ancient as he had claimed; he could almost see the sheer weight and authority of the Doctor's centuries wrapping around his thin frame like a robe of office. "Tell me the story, Peter," he commanded quietly. "Tell me about the witches."

"Witches... spoke to Peter," the prisoner croaked, a manic gleam in his pale green eyes, which looked far too large in the ravaged face. "In the night, they whispered. They whispered." He raised a clawlike hand and scratched at the air beside his ear. "Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design! The fourteen walls. Always fourteen. When the work was done..." he chuckled mirthlessly, rotting teeth bared in a grin of horror, "They snapped poor Peter's wits!"

"But where did Peter see the witches, where in the city?" the Doctor asked, his aura of calm beginning to desert him as the architect hesitated, his look of terror deepening. "Peter, tell me," the Time Lord insisted, crouching back down, voice growing urgent. "You've got to tell me: where were they?"

Peter's eyes widened further, panting for breath. "All Hallows Street...!" he managed to rasp, a fierce satisfaction crossing his sunken countenance, as if he had just fought a momentous battle against an unseen foe... and won.

"Too many words!" came a vicious hiss. Watson and Holmes both recoiled, gaping in shock at a hideously wizened hag who had just appeared out of nowhere right beside the Doctor, pointed teeth bared, eyes burning with malice. The Doctor scrambled backwards, a moment before the black-robed hag bent over the prone architect. "Just one touch of the heart," she gloated, and laid a taloned hand on Peter's chest before any of the four other men could move to stop her.

"No!" the Doctor shouted, far too late – Peter screamed, body arching for a moment, then collapsed back onto the cot, lifeless.

"Witch!" Watson heard Shakespeare's stunned voice behind him. "I'm seeing a witch!"

"Now, who would be next, hmm?" the witch cackled, as Holmes reached out and shoved Watson behind him, casting futilely around the empty cell for any kind of a weapon. "Just one touch..."

Watson turned and pounded on the cell door, trying to make as much noise as possible. "Keeper, let us out!" he shouted. "Keeper!" But his frantic calls were lost amid the uproar from the other prisoners, who were all shouting exactly the same thing!

"Who will die first, hmm?" the creature asked gleefully, and Watson was appalled to hear the Doctor drawl in response: "Weeell, if you're looking for volunteers..."

"Doctor, no!" Watson whirled back around, but found his arm being grasped by Holmes in a silent message: _Wait_... The detective was tense as a wound spring, but his attention was focused more on the Doctor than on the hag, grey eyes gleaming speculatively. Trusting his friend's greater knowledge of the alien's methods, Watson held himself in place, but still ready to move at a moment's notice.

"Doctor, can you stop her?" Shakespeare muttered urgently.

The witch screeched scornfully. "No mortal has power over me!"

"Oh, but there's a power in words," the Doctor mused, voice lowering to a soft growl. "If I can find the right one, if I can just _know_ you..."

"None on Earth has knowledge of us!" she said defiantly, although a hint of doubt was beginning to appear in the creature's eyes as the Doctor took yet another step forward.

"Then it's a good thing I'm here," the Time Lord responded coolly, before starting to mutter to himself, "Now think, think, think. Humanoid female, uses shapes and words to channel energy – ah!" His eyes widened. "_Fourteen_! That's it, fourteen! The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration!" He stabbed his finger at the hag. "Creature, I name you: Carrionite!"

The female had been looking increasingly horrified as the Doctor delivered his tirade, and as the Time Lord spoke the last word, she wailed in apparent agony and disappeared the next moment, the surrounding air seeming to glow and fold itself in on her... as far as an astonished Watson could make out!

He shook his head weakly, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened. "Doctor, what on earth did you do?"

"I named her," the Doctor said with grim satisfaction. "The power of a name. That's _old_ magic."

Holmes sighed heavily, relaxing his grip on Watson's arm at last. "Did you not previously state that magic does not exist?"

"Well, it's just a different sort of science." The Doctor shrugged. "You lot, you chose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you can split the atom. Carrionites use words instead."

"Use them for what?" Shakespeare asked worriedly.

The Doctor gazed in deep foreboding at the spot where the Carrionite had vanished. "The end of the world..." he breathed, then shook himself. "We should go," he said aloud, looking regretfully, angrily down at Peter's body. "We're done here."

Watson, meanwhile, had knelt beside the cot, heart aching. Of all the Carrionites' innocent victims, this poor wretch had to have suffered the longest and most terribly – thank God Peter could now rest in peace... He reached out and gently closed the man's eyes, unable to keep from wondering how many more such deaths there would be by the end of this case.

"I'm so sorry..." came the Doctor's solemn murmur from above, and Watson knew well that the apology wasn't meant for him.

He looked up at the Time Lord in total empathy, murmuring back, "It never gets any easier, Doctor, does it?"

The Doctor shook his head. "I was afraid to make you understand that. It's never going to get any easier; it only ever gets harder as you get in deeper."

Watson smiled sadly. "My dear sir – do you truly think I had not learned that years ago?"

The Doctor's eyes were the most haunted that his human colleague had ever seen them. "Bigger stages, uglier atrocities..." His gaze drifted towards Holmes – the detective was glaring venomously at the just-returned keeper, who was poorly concealing a smug grin as he unlocked the door. "Ugly enough to shock and horrify Sherlock Holmes." He sighed. "Can we please get out of here?"

"By all means," Watson concurred, glad to accept the Doctor's offered hand in rising. The chill, damp underground was playing merry hell with his old injuries, and although his nose had mercifully shut down by now, he felt as if he'd need half a dozen baths before feeling even remotely clean again. And, dear God – how on earth were they going to explain Peter Streete's sudden death to the keeper? Then again, given the circumstances, perhaps it was best to act as if the man was merely sleeping, and return later to ensure he received a decent burial. Watson suspected that the keeper would be more than happy to turn a blind eye in any case, if his palms were greased liberally enough...

* * *

The Doctor had his jaw clenched and his hands firmly in his pockets as they walked out of the hospital from hell. Peter hadn't had to die. He never liked witnessing a death, but he liked it even less when the death was _that_ senseless.

Shakespeare's voice, uncharacteristically gentle, pulled him out of his brooding. "Doctor, tell me about these Carrionites."

"Mm, well. The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe. Nobody was sure if they were real or legend." Not even Time Lords—no one ever had the inclination to go back and check, not even the Doctor. The stories were nasty… justifiably so, apparently.

"Well, I'm going for real."

The Doctor smirked.

"But what is it they want?" said Holmes.

"Oh, not much different from last time…" _Holmes's_ last time, that is. All these bloodthirsty peoples thought one poor little blue planet was easy meat—_why_ they never bothered to take such factors as protectors into account was beyond the Doctor to fathom. "A new empire on Earth. A world of bones and blood and witchcraft."

Holmes's expression was grim; it had been a couple of years for him, but the Doctor didn't doubt that he remembered the K'vir vividly. Poor Watson looked aghast. _Gah, I'm doing it again_. _Just 'cos I'm a Time Lord, what gives me the right to ruin lives like this, anyway?_

"But how?" said Watson.

The Doctor turned to Shakespeare. "I'm looking at the man with the words." One of the few humans ever to exist who could possibly beat a being who used words to destroy at its own game.

Shakespeare blinked. "Me? But I've done nothing."

Holmes stopped in his tracks as if struck by a sudden thought. "Wait… Master Shakespeare, when the Carrionite was in your room last night, you were finishing the play!"

"Yes…"

"What happens on the last page?" said the Doctor.

"The boys get the girls," Shakespeare said slowly. "They have a bit of a dance… It's all funny and thought-provoking as usual. Except those last few lines. Funny thing is, I don't actually remember writing them."

"That's it." Oh, brilliant, brilliant of those Carrionites. As far as world-conquering schemes went, this had to be one of the better ones, complex and subtle and careful… "They used you. They gave you the final words like a spell, like a code. _Love's Labours Won_. It's a weapon. The right combination of words, spoken at the right place, with the shape of the Globe as an energy converter! The play's the thing! And yes, you can have that."

* * *

The sun had set by the time Shakespeare brought them to the right place. "There it is, All Hallows Street."

The Doctor nodded. "Thanks, Will. Now get to the Globe—whatever you do, stop that play!"

Shakespeare nodded back. "I'll do it." He smiled wryly. "All these years I've been the cleverest man around. Next to you, I know nothing."

Watson's tone was just as wry. "I know the feeling…"

"Oh, I'm not complaining." The Bard grinned briefly. "It's marvelous. Good luck, Doctor."

The Time Lord nodded back. "Good luck, Shakespeare. Once more unto the breach."

"I like that. Wait a minute, that's one of mine!"

The Doctor rolled his eyes, all but vibrating his impatience. "Oh, just shift!" He strode off amid the writers' admonitions to each other to be careful.

What made him grin was hearing Holmes's equally impatient cry: "Come on, Watson! The game is afoot!"

Watson's response was just as golden. "Plagiarism is infectious, it seems…" Then he said, "Doctor, I don't understand—how can the world end now, in 1599? Holmes and I are still here, and we're from three centuries into the future!"

"Ohhh, how to explain it?" Well, he could bring up _Back to the Future_, but neither of them would know it, so fat lot of good that would do them… "Time is in flux right now—nothing is set in stone at this point in Time. What we do now decides whether or not the world ends now, here in 1599."

"Watson," Holmes said quietly, "there _are_ certain Points in Time which are fixed, events which must always happen in order for Time to continue moving—but apparently this is not one of them. If we fail to stop the Carrionites, the Earth as we know it in our time will simply cease to be, will never have been… And, most likely," he continued grimly, "we too will fade into oblivion."

The Doctor could just _feel_ Watson pale as the man whispered, "Rewriting history… dear God!" And then the Time Lord did not have to turn to know that the soldier was coming to the forefront in John H. Watson—he could hear it in the man's tone. "Very well, then, let's be about our business."

The Doctor did cast an apologetic look over his shoulder—Watson _would_ need to be the soldier for whatever followed, but the Doctor did _not_ want him to have to be. "Awwll right—All Hallows Street, but which house?"

Just ahead, the door of one house creaked open invitingly.

"Ah," the Doctor said dryly. "Make that _witch_ house. Shall we?"

The detective and the army surgeon traded a brief, serious-business look, then followed him in. Looked rather like your standard witch's dwelling, too—herbs and bones and dusty old tomes and the lot. Also deserted, this floor, so the Doctor took to the stairs and strode straight into the first room on the landing. "I take it we're expected."

The pretty redhead from The Elephant stood by the window—he might have known. "Oh, I think Death has been waiting for you a very long time," she returned, smiling.

"And it shall have to wait a great while longer," Watson said grimly: "Carrionite!"

The Doctor grimaced more in embarrassment for the man than the fact that the naming had no effect.

Watson leaned in towards him, expression urgent. "Why didn't that work?"

"The power of a name works only once," said the girl. "Observe. I gaze upon these bags of bones and name them John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

The two men collapsed to the floor as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut. The Doctor dropped to his knees, checking their pulses. "What have you done?!" Alive, thank goodness.

"Only sleeping, alas. It's curious—the names have less impact. They're somehow out of their time. And as for you, Sir Doctor!" She pointed one sharp fingernail, obviously expectant. "Fascinating. There is no name. Why would a man hide his title in such despair?"

Oh, not even a Carrionite could begin to understand… how thoroughly a Time Lord could wish his own name had never existed… The name he had chosen for himself could have no power that a Carrionite could use—he had chosen too well for that. So well that he didn't even manage to live up to its power, more often than not.

"Oh, but look," she continued. "There's still one word with a power that aches."

He stared at her—that was impossible. "The naming won't work on me."

"But your heart grows cold. The North Wind blows—" and then in a flash of horror, he _knew_—"and carries down the distant… Rose."

He rose, eyes wide and storming. "Oh, _big_ mistake, 'cos that name keeps me fighting!" This body had been born out of saving one tiny pink-and-yellow girl with all of Time and Space inside her… and it would die thinking of her. "The Carrionites vanished! Where did you go?"

"The Eternals found the right word to banish us into deep darkness."

"And how did you escape?"

"New words." Oh. Oh no… "New and glittering from a mind like no other."

One of the greatest geniuses mankind would ever know… "Shakespeare." Always the best and brightest of mankind… were twisted for the greatest evils…

"His son perished," the Carrionite continued. "Grief without measure. Madness enough to allow us entrance.

…but the best and brightest still managed to shine enough to hold the darkness at bay. "How many of you?"

"Just the three." Really, he was kind of amazed she was talking this much—she obviously did _not_ know him. "But the play tonight shall restore the rest. Then the human race will be purged as pestilence. And from this world we will lead the universe back to the old ways of blood and magic."

"Hmm… busy schedule… but first you gotta get past me." He was standing right before the girl, towering over her.

"Oh, that should be a pleasure," she said, her tone honey-smooth, low and full of promise, "considering my enemy has such a handsome shape." She touched his face, ran her fingers down it.

"Now, that's one form of magic that's definitely not gonna work on me." Time Lords didn't think with their hormones, thank you very much.

"Oh, we'll see." Almost before he could react, she'd yanked a lock of hair from his head and backed away.

He winced, frowning, and rubbed the spot. "What did you do?" Oh, that came out wrong—he'd _meant_ to say, "What was that for?"

"Souvenir."

"Well, give it back!"

The girl threw up her arms in response, and the window behind her opened. She flew out backwards, as if being pulled.

"Well, that's just cheating." Why couldn't the bad guys ever play fair?

"Behold, Doctor. Men to Carrionites are nothing but puppets." Miss Femme Fatale held up a little ragged thing that rather resembled a voodoo doll.

Behind him, he heard the sounds of his temporary Companions rousing. Watson's groggy voice: "Ohhh… Holmes…?" The detective only groaned in response.

"Now, you might call that magic," the Doctor told the girl. "I'd call that a DNA replication module."

"What use is your science now?"

She stabbed the doll with a pin, and he _felt_ it—felt an invisible sliver of ice pierce his left heart. He screamed near-soundlessly, the breath driven from his chest, and collapsed to the floor. He only distantly heard the Carrionite fly off, focused as he was on that respiratory bypass and working _hard_ to ignore the agony.

"Doctor!" Watson's voice. The Doctor felt himself being rolled over by strong hands, but he was in too much pain to open his eyes, let alone respond. That bypass was not working properly… "Doctor, can you hear me?"

"Dear God—" Holmes's voice (alarmed, bless him)—"what did she do to him?"

There it was! The Doctor bolted upright, grimacing and gasping for breath. "Ah! I've only got one heart working. How do you people cope?!" So much blood and not enough places for it to go!

Watson stared. "How many _do_ you have?"

"Two! I've got to get the other one started. Hit me! Hit me on the chest!"

Watson thumped him on the right side of his chest—_hard_.

"_Gah!_" That just hurt like the dickens—that man had a powerful swing! "Other side!"

Watson obliged.

"Now on the back, on the back! Left a bit!"

Another blow, and ohhh! Thump-thump-thump-thump—four beats again! Oh yes! "Dah, lovely!" The Doctor shot up to his feet. "There we go. Badda-boomba! Come on! Gotta get to the Globe!"

* * *

**Author's note from Ria:**

Patience, folks, final showdown next chapter... and yes, we _know_ you're all hanging out for the new Word of Power! Feel free to guess what it could be in your reviews... she not-so-subtly hinted...

To those wondering about Watson's plagiarism comment, 'The game is afoot' is actually from 'Henry V', by a certain Elizabethan playwright... not even Holmes is immune!


	6. Once More Unto The Breach

**==Chapter Six==**

**Once More Unto The Breach**

"_I could go anywhere, do anything. It was dizzying. Suddenly, to see that the world was so large, the cosmos so black. The unbounded fascination of it, the unbounded loneliness..."_

– _Banana Yoshimoto, __Kitchen_

The evening sky was rapidly growing darker, a strong, chill wind tugging at the companions' clothing as they navigated the maze of streets at a run. Rounding the last corner, Holmes heard a colourful, if somewhat breathless curse escape Watson's lips, barely containing one of his own – above the Globe, ominous-looking clouds were beginning to gather, shot through continuously with bolts of scarlet lightning. The townsfolk on the street were fleeing the scene in terrified droves, but the main doors when the three men reached them were closed tight and refused to open, in spite of their combined efforts.

"Stage door!" the Doctor snapped, barely audible over the noise of the growing 'storm' and the screams and thumps on the woodwork from the helpless audience trapped inside. They raced around the outside of the building and mercifully found the next door unfastened, bursting in to see Shakespeare slumped in a chair backstage, looking as dazed as he had when they'd discovered Mistress Bailey's corpse – more of the Carrionites' handiwork, no doubt.

"'Stop the play!'" the Doctor fumed, scowling. "I think that was it. Yeah, I said, 'Stop the play!'"

"I hit my head," Shakespeare faintly protested, nursing it gingerly.

"Yeah, don't rub it, you'll go bald," the Time Lord retorted, tensing as louder screams erupted from front of house. "I think that's my cue!" He turned and dashed out onto the stage. Holmes and Watson exchanged another grave glance, hauled Shakespeare to his feet and followed after, the unsteady playwright in tow.

Holmes' eyes widened at the sight that greeted them: the young Carrionite from All Hallows' Street stood in the royal box in the middle gallery, holding what appeared to be a small crystal ball, which bathed her and the two older hags flanking her in an eerie blue light. The three wore identical expressions of unholy glee as the Carrionite raised the crystal higher, crying out something Holmes couldn't quite make out over the noise of the mob... and a moment later, all hell seemed to literally break loose! From out of the crystal poured countless black-shrouded, wraithlike figures; they swarmed around the centre space above the panic-stricken crowd, shrieking as loud as banshees, talons outstretched, and the little that Holmes could glimpse of their features made him deeply thankful they were moving too fast for him to see more! In addition, the clouds that had amassed overhead were now blood-red and funneling down into the Globe, just like the beginning of a cyclone...

A second fervent oath from an equally aghast Watson snapped the detective out of his trance, and he turned to the Doctor, voice sharp with urgency. "Doctor, how can we stop this?"

The Doctor whirled, staring at Shakespeare. "Him."

"Doctor..." The playwright swallowed hard, looking ill.

"Come on, Will!" the Time Lord shouted above the din, latching onto Shakespeare's arm as Holmes and Watson propelled him forward from behind. "History needs you!"

"But... what can _I_ do?" Shakespeare stammered.

"Reverse it!"

"How am I supposed to do that?!" The playwright sounded understandably dumbfounded.

"The shape of the Globe gives words power," the Doctor explained rapidly, "but you're the wordsmith, the one true genius. The only man clever enough to do it!"

"But what words? I have none ready!"

Watson snorted. "For God's sake, man – you're William Shakespeare!"

"But these Carrionite phrases, they need such precision!" Shakespeare protested.

The Doctor grasped him by the shoulders, eyes locked on his, voice low but still clear. "Trust yourself. When you're locked away in your room, the words just come, don't they, like magic. Words of the right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm – words that last forever. That's what you do, Will! You choose perfect words. Do it," the Time Lord urged. "Improvise!"

The paralysing doubt began to fade from Shakespeare's countenance as the Doctor spoke, a gleam appearing in his eyes which was all too familiar to Holmes, living as he did with an aspiring author. The playwright took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and stepped forward, glaring up at the gloating trio. "Close up this den of hateful, dire decay!" he shouted. "Decomposition of your witches' plot! You thieve my brains, consider me your toy. My doted Doctor tells me I am not!"

The three Carrionites in the box recoiled as one in horror and alarm. "_No!_" Holmes could just hear the youngest female screech. "Words of power!"

Shakespeare continued relentlessly, his voice ringing with a confidence that he was probably far from feeling. "Foul Carrionite spectres, cease your show! Between the points..." He hesitated and looked back at the Doctor.

"Seven-six-one-three-nine-oh!" the Doctor hastily supplied. Holmes could only hazard a surmise that those figures were a set of coordinates, although he had no intention of asking where to…

"Seven-six-one-three-nine-oh!" Shakespeare repeated. "Defiant of your vile euphoria, I say to thee...!" Once again he faltered, his backward glance desperate this time – and Holmes was dismayed to note that the Doctor now looked equally at a loss!

Watson gasped, eyes widening as inspiration struck: "Phantasmagoria!"

Holmes stared, completely taken aback by the bizarre response – it seemed to meet with the Doctor's approval, however, who was himself calling the ludicrous word to Shakespeare in audible relief: "Phantasmagoria!"

"_Phantasmagoria!_" Shakespeare bellowed at the top of his lungs with obvious relish, echoed by two or three other members of the company, terrified though they were.

"Good old Charles!" the Doctor exclaimed, eyes shining affectionately.

Holmes forbore to comment just then, since it was clear that that strange word had been exactly what was needed. The swirling vortex within the theater was already starting to retreat into the sky, dragging every single Carrionite along with it – save for the three in the royal box, faces contorted by screams of rage as they watched helplessly. A moment later, to Holmes' further amazement, a veritable blizzard of pages flew out through the doors behind the men onstage! Ink-scrawled sheets of parchment fluttered about everywhere, filling the air with a rustling sound strangely similar to applause, before they too were sucked upwards into the maelstrom.

"'Love's Labours Won'," the Doctor nodded, an odd note of approval in his voice. "There it goes..."

Watson sighed and looked regretfully at the page he had just peeled off the back of his neck. For a brief moment, Holmes saw real temptation in his friend's face... but the next instant, Watson released the parchment with a faint smile, allowing it to be taken with the rest. The Doctor clapped Watson on his good shoulder in combined sympathy and pride, as the clouds rapidly faded away and the wind died down, until all was quiet once more under a clear night sky.

There was a stunned silence for a few more seconds, as everyone in the theater caught their breath, trying to come to terms with everything that had just happened. Then, from one of the gallery stalls, came a faint clapping, which quickly grew and spread until the entire audience was cheering themselves hoarse. Holmes shook his head as he realised: "Good Lord – they think it was all part of the play!"

Being the seasoned troupers they were, the actors quickly recovered from the shock and came forward to take their bows, grinning and waving to the crowd as if nothing had ever been amiss. Shakespeare pushed the time-travellers forward as well, smiling encouragingly. "All the world's a stage," he innocently remarked, as the four took their own bows to thunderous applause. "Isn't that right, Doctor?"

The Doctor straightened and stared at Shakespeare in surprise, then started to chuckle.

"So, who _is_ this 'Charles'?" Holmes murmured to Watson, curiosity finally getting the better of him. "Dickens?"

The Doctor stopped chortling to grin at Holmes. "Nope - Dodgson."

Watson nodded, eyes twinkling. "Better known by his _nom de plume:_ Lewis Carroll." He elbowed Holmes in the ribs with a satisfied smirk. "You see, old boy? A working knowledge of popular fiction _can_ come in useful."

The detective sighed, rolling his eyes. "Thank you, Doctor," he muttered. "I am never going to hear the end of this..." The Doctor merely snorted and laughed even harder, his mirth starting to infect Shakespeare and Watson as well. Holmes pointedly ignored the joint snickering from the two writers, and gazed thoughtfully up at the royal box – where the three witches had stood, there was now only the blue crystal ball, sitting on the edge of the parapet. It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but from here it looked as if there was something moving inside it...

* * *

Dawn found three weary Englishmen lounging in the now-empty Globe; Watson and Shakespeare were chatting amiably centre stage, while Holmes reclined against one of the pillars, trying not to look bored from all the shop talk.

Shakespeare glanced over at Holmes, musing aloud, "There's royal blood in him, I'll be bound. Noble blood, at least. His eyes, his voice, his carriage..."

Watson smiled in fond agreement, although he couldn't resist countering, "Try living with him for a week!" earning a half-hearted glare from stage right.

Shakespeare shook his head, chuckling. "Is not every royal person impossible to live with?"

"I wouldn't know," Watson answered thoughtfully, "but Holmes is certainly near impossible to live without." Who should know it better than him...

The detective coughed, turning his head in a vain attempt to hide his growing blush.

Shakespeare's grin sobered into a solemn smile. "Oh, that I can tell quite easily. The level of oneness betwixt the two of you is rare and wonderful to see."

Holmes turned back again, smiling at his friend. "I know I would be lost without my chronicler." _That's right,_ Watson realised next moment, _Johnson and Boswell won't be born for almost another two centuries..._

Shakespeare nodded, rising and crossing over to the detective. "Never lose that need, good Holmes," he said earnestly, crouching to look Holmes straight in the eye. "You possess a great power – never abuse it, or abuse your friendships in the refining of it."

Holmes returned the regard for several moments, expression unreadable, then nodded back solemnly.

Shakespeare clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man."

"Good props store back there!" The Doctor strolled out from backstage, carrying a large cow skull and, Watson was amused to note, wearing a ruff around his neck, which looked utterly ridiculous combined with the rest of his odd attire. "I'm not sure about this, though," holding up the skull. "Reminds me of a Sycorax."

"'Sycorax'..." murmured the playwright, intrigued. "Nice word. I'll have that off you as well."

"I should be on ten percent," the Doctor dryly remarked. "How's your head?"

"Still aching," Shakespeare grimaced, massaging his temples.

"Here, I got you this." The Doctor took off the ruff and put it on Shakespeare. "Neck brace. Wear that for a few days 'til it's better – although..." tilting his head in consideration, "you might want to keep it. Suits you."

Watson smiled, not so much for the harmless paradox as for the gratifying sight of the Doctor in his element. "And the play?"

"Gone," the Time Lord shrugged. "I looked all over. Every single copy of 'Love's Labours Won' went up in the sky."

"My lost masterpiece," Shakespeare sighed.

"Could you not write it out again?" Holmes asked as he got to his feet, hastening to add: "With a slightly different ending, of course."

The Doctor winced. "Yeaaah, better not, Will. There's still power in those words. Maybe it should best stay forgotten."

"Oh, but I've got new ideas." Shakespeare smiled sadly, a distant look in his eyes. "Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons, in memory of my boy – my precious Hamnet."

Watson looked at him in mild surprise. "Ham_net_?"

"That's him."

Recollecting himself, Watson nodded, smiling sincerely. "I think a play in his honour is a fine idea, Will."

The informal address escaped Watson before he realised, but William Shakespeare seemed not to care. "Thank you, John," he smiled back, clearly touched, and Watson was no less moved himself at the familiar use of _his_ given name by History's greatest author!

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Anyway, time we were off." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the Carrionites' crystal ball, from which faint, tinny-sounding shrieks were still issuing. "I've got a nice attic in the TARDIS where this lot can scream for all eternity, and I've got to take Holmes and Watson back home."

"You mean: travel on through time and space to future London," Shakespeare casually corrected.

The Doctor stared. "You what?"

Watson's mouth fell open, as Holmes began to laugh silently.

The playwright arched an eyebrow, trying not to look smug and failing. "You, Doctor, are from another world, like the Carrionites; and you, John and Sherlock, are from the future. It's not hard to work out."

"That's... incredible," breathed the Doctor. "You are incredible."

"That would be putting it mildly," Holmes said, grinning, and extended a hand to their host. "Master Shakespeare, it has been an honour."

Shakespeare shook hands firmly, returning the grin. "As it has been for me – I've no doubt that you're as renowned in your own time as I am in mine. Have a good life, Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes smiled modestly. "And the same to you, sir."

Watson rose and stepped forward as well, beaming. "Thank you for everything, Will. Good luck with the writing!"

Shakespeare pumped his arm genially. "Thank _you_ for that marvellous word of power, John! And the best of luck with your chronicles."

"Oh, believe me, I'll be needing it," Watson said, chuckling. "It's no joke when your subject is your harshest critic!"

Shakespeare tutted and shook his head in sympathy, then turned to the Doctor. "Doctor, it's been a pleasure to..."

"Will!" Their farewells were interrupted by two of the acting troupe, Richard Burbage and William Kempe, bursting in through the front doors, breathless and wide-eyed.

"Will, you'll never believe it," Kempe cried. "She's here! She's turned up!"

"We're the talk of the town," Burbage chimed in. "She heard about last night. She wants us to perform it again!"

"Who's turned up?" asked Watson, musing that whoever 'she' was would be in for a considerable disappointment.

"Her Majesty!" Burbage said urgently, as a trumpet fanfare sounded from out on the street. "She's here!"

Watson and Holmes exchanged looks of amazement, but recovered in time to bow with everyone else, as Queen Elizabeth herself swept through the doors in full regalia. Well, almost everyone... Watson was aghast to see out of the corner of his eye that the Doctor was still upright, beaming from ear to ear. "Queen Elizabeth the First!" he exclaimed in delight.

Her Majesty's head snapped up at the Doctor's voice, expression thunderstruck. "Doctor?!"

The Doctor blinked. "What?"

"My sworn enemy!" the Queen almost hissed, eyes blazing.

"What?" The Time Lord looked thoroughly taken aback. For their part, Holmes and Watson could only stare from alien to monarch and back again, equally astonished.

"Off with his head!"

"_What?!_" The Doctor frowned, incredulous.

Holmes broke out of his trance as the two guardsmen flanking the Queen moved forward, faces grim, pikes held ready. "Well, don't just stand there, Doctor!" he snapped, grabbing the Time Lord's arm. "Run!"

"Stop that pernicious Doctor!" Elizabeth bellowed.

"Here we go again," Watson groaned, turning to follow the other two in their dash for the stage door. "Goodbye, Will!" he called over his shoulder to Shakespeare, who was laughing helplessly as the guards rushed up onto the stage.

The companions raced through the streets back to the TARDIS, with both pikemen close behind and shouting, "Stop in the name of the Queen!"

"What the hell did you do to upset _her?_" Watson panted as they ran.

"How should I know?" the Doctor protested, digging deep into his pocket. "Haven't even met her yet! That's time travel for you. 'Sides which, we're talking about _Elizabeth the First_." He grinned as they screeched to a halt in front of the booth, unlocking the door. "Still, can't wait to find out." The door swung open and Watson and Holmes piled in. "That's something to look forward to... uh-oh!" He jumped in himself and shut the door, an instant before Watson heard the thud of an arrow burying itself in the woodwork, then hurried over to the console, laughing. "We're out of here!"

Watson cast a nervous glance back at the door. "Doctor, they just shot at the TARDIS! If they can see her, does that mean they can get in?"

"Oh no!" the Doctor scoffed. "Nope – you can ask the hordes of Genghis Khan about that, if you like." He winked and threw down the lever on the console; his companions held on tight to the edge once more as the TARDIS began to shudder and lurch her way out of the sixteenth century.

"So, okay!" The Doctor's smile tightened. "Back to 1895!"

Watson couldn't help feeling relieved at the prospect of returning home. Still, he had to admit, he would be sorry to bid farewell to the Doctor so soon – they'd only just begun to get acquainted... He felt rather than saw Holmes' piercing sideways glance, accompanied by a mutter that sounded rather like: "I knew it..." The Doctor, meanwhile, was looking deeply interested in one of the displays on the console – studied nonchalance if ever there was any.

Holmes shook his head, looking resigned, and sighed. "Well, Doctor...?"

The Doctor looked up again, his eyes wide and filling with cautious hope, only to meet Holmes' stern gaze, the detective's expression clearly stating, 'Do _not_ make me regret this...' The Doctor sucked in a nervous breath, hesitating a long moment before asking Watson, "One trip into the future?"

Watson's own eyes widened in delight. "Yes, please!"

Holmes couldn't quite hide a smile at his friend's excitement. "What did you have in mind, Doctor?"

The Doctor smiled tentatively. "How about... oooh, I don't know... New New York? Although, technically, it's the fifteenth New York from the original, so it's New New New New New New New New New New New New New New New York. One of the most dazzling cities ever built - year Five billion and fifty-three, Planet New Earth, fifty thousand light years from your old world." Watson's jaw dropped, trying to wrap his mind around such a vast distance, and failing utterly. "Wanna try it?"

"No objections here, Doctor!" Watson breathed. "Holmes?"

Holmes' eyes gleamed. "I must confess myself most intrigued..."

The Doctor beamed, excited once more. "Then New York to the fifteenth power it is!_ Allons-y!_"

**To Be Continued...**

**in Episode Three: "Gridson"**

* * *

**Author's note from Ria:**

C'mon, y'all knew the adventures weren't going to end here, right? We should probably explain the title for the next episode, though: 'Gridlock' reminded me of 'Sherlock', so... yes, yes, shocking pun! I blame the OTPs! ;)

**Author's note from Sky:**

Sooo... I gotta say, I had a lot of fun writing Shakespeare _—_ he's one of my favorite one-episode characters. And it's so fantastic to be done with our second episode. Woooo~! Oh yes, and full credit goes to Ria for the new Word of Power _—_fantastic, right? I have to say, I really thought it was cute that you all suggested "elementary," which was certainly a fair guess! I think we even considered it briefly but decided against it as being too obvious.

And one more thing before we go! If you go to my Tumblr, astudyinsherlockiana, and add onto the URL "tagged/Children+of+Time, there's all sorts of goodies in the tag for you! Do check it out, and maybe reblog while you're at it! ;D

Thanks for all the support and wonderful feedback! Now enjoy the next episode!


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